October's Ghost

CHAPTER SIXTEEN PLANS AND ACTION

Art looked at the small card just handed him. One look was all it took. “Dan, this is beautiful.”

“Thank the computers and Luke Kessler,” Dan Jacobs said. “He got the information we needed from the Florida DMV muy pronto.”

Frankie took the card. Without a real Florida driver’s license to compare it to, this one could pass for legit. It might have to, she knew. “It’d be just our luck that one of the desk clerks is from Florida.”

“All right,” Art said, motioning for the agents to move closer. “We are going to do this right, so listen carefully. Omar and I will each be directing the two search teams. Frankie and Shelley will be doing the actual casting of our bait.”

“Using their feminine ways,” the same agent as before cracked.

“I’ll ‘feminine way’ your family jewels,” Shelley Murdock shot back, getting a better response than her verbal nemesis.

“Enough locker-room crap,” Art said, getting them back on track. “Frankie and Shelley will each have one of these.” He held up the counterfeit Florida license produced by the lab. It was a real representation of one of the licenses of their shooters shown on the photocopy from the rental agency. Dan Jacobs had taken the color composite photo put together from Mrs. Carroll’s description, cleaned it up using their suspect’s picture from the copy, then shrunk the image on the computer and added it to a close approximation of a Florida driver’s license. It was an FBI-produced forgery to rival the forgeries the shooters had been using. It was also the bait. “Six of us on each team besides them. Their job is to go to the desk clerk at each of the motels on our list and play like they’re delivering a lost wallet to the guy on the license. They’ll say they work at some store and that Mr. Flavio Alicante — aka whoever — called and asked if a lost wallet was found. They were supposed to hand-deliver it to him at such and such motel but didn’t give a room number. If the clerk recognizes the name and face and gives a room number, then we’ve got ‘em. If not, we move on.”

“How do we know they used the same names to check in under?” an agent asked.

“We don’t, but either way we should be okay. These desk clerks deal with enough ‘John Smiths’ and ‘Joe Blows’ that a false name on the register won’t spook them. It’s the picture that will get us our shooters…not the name.”

Deputy SAC Lou Hidalgo had listened from the back of the group. He was not there to pass judgment on Art’s plan of action, though Jerry Donovan had cautioned him to do just that. What he had heard didn’t bother him in the least. It was a smart operation. But he did have some questions. “Art, what’s the separation on the two teams going to be?”

“Two short blocks,” he answered. Los Angeles, like many cities, was a patchwork of rectangular blocks with short and long sides. “If we get a hit, the other team can be there in a minute.”

“And the rovers?” Hidalgo went on.

“Sixty agents out there now. When we find them, we lock the area up tight and get any innocents away from the scene. LAPD will set up a perimeter, and we make our move…even if that’s just waiting.”

Hidalgo nodded approval. Art Jefferson, despite Donovan’s worries, didn’t need watching anymore. At one time, maybe, but no longer. His choice of Omar Espinosa, a tough, straight-shooting agent, as a second in this case only added to that belief. “Do it.”

Frankie took the wallet and slid the license into the plastic cover that would prevent too close an examination when showed to the desk clerks. Shelley Murdock did the same. The choice of the two female agents to do the point work was a practical one. Women were less threatening. It was societal, and Art was willing to use whatever tricks he could muster to catch the killers of Thom Danbrook. A suspicious desk clerk could ruin it all.

“Okay, partner, showtime,” Frankie said.

Art checked the communications rig on her. It would allow her to speak to the three Bureau cars tasked with watching her backside, but not to hear them. An earpiece would be too obvious. Almost as obvious as her anticipation of this. “Right. You just keep talking. Let us know what’s going on.”

“Easy enough.” Frankie tucked her holster farther back than it usually rode, hiding it under the loose jacket.

“We’ll keep you in sight,” Art said. It was more of a promise. It was also a need, he worried.

“Okay,” Frankie responded quickly. “Let’s get to—”

Art grabbed her arm and pulled her into their cubicle. The other agents had filtered toward the elevator, leaving them alone.

“What?”

“Frankie, this is for real.”

She looked up at her partner with an expression of puzzlement and anger. “What the hell do you think I think it is?”

“It certainly isn’t a fucking dream,” Art yelled in a hushed voice, one eye on the group of agents just boarding the elevator. The look of recognition in Frankie’s face washed away the other emotions. “Yeah, that’s right. Your mother called me.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she’s worried about you. Just like I am.” He let go of her arm. “What is going on up there, Frankie? Huh? This is not some personal vendetta you can let your mind dream about, because I am not willing to let that cross over into your behavior. No chance.”

She swallowed hard, her eyes locked on those of the man she respected more than any other. On the man she hated almost as much as herself at the moment. “It won’t.”

“I can take you off of this, Frankie.”

“Then why haven’t you?” It was a simple question, and a more difficult challenge.

“Because I have faith in you, partner.” He glared down at her. “And in your professionalism. Don’t give me any reason to doubt that.”

“I won’t,” Frankie said, meaning it at the moment. It was the future that she wasn’t sure of.

“Then let’s get going.”

Frankie watched Art turn and walk toward the elevator, leaving her alone. Very alone. “Yeah, let’s.”

No booze. No broads. Just a too-soft mattress and the first hangover in years that he hadn’t doused with bourbon.

Sober mornings were pretty shitty, George Sullivan thought upon waking to his first in a long time. But it was the first, he realized. Maybe, like the booze that had kept him from experiencing them, they got better with age.

He rolled to a sitting position on the motel bed, the soaked sheets twisted around his body. Instinctively he looked to the nightstand for the bottle, but there was none. He had brought none. That reality made him snicker to himself. Was this Step One of the Twelve? he jokingly mused.

There was something on the nightstand, though. George took it in his hand, his half-medicated thoughts from the night before returning. Go there? he wondered, looking at the address on the keytab. They might be..

The fear made him want to drink. Want it really bad. The want was the demon to conquer, not the booze. To conquer it, he would have to get past the fear. Have to face it. To prove that he could. It was his job. It was his life.

It was his last chance.

George stood from the bed on wobbly legs. His head immediately began to spin. Neither malady, though, would deter him. He clutched the key tightly and looked around the room for his clothes. There was no time for a shower. This story couldn’t wait.

Garrity picked the phone up on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Yes.”

The lightly accented voice was unmistakable. “We’ve got trouble.”

The contact noticed the absence of traffic noises in the background. This sounded like… “Where are you?”

Garrity gulped. “Home.”

“What! Are you out of your fucking mind! What the fuck are you thinking!”

“Listen, I had no choice. My car is dead, and I have something that can’t wait.”

A loud breath blew through the phone line. “Goddammit!” There was a pause. “What is so fucking important that you can’t follow procedures?”

“There is a missile still there. There really is.”

There was more silence. He wasn’t supposed to know that. “What do you… Do you mean they think there is one?”

“No. This isn’t like before. This time they have some sort of proof.”

Oh, shit! “Are you sure? Positively?”

“I got it off the director’s desk last night. Some guy in the White House, his name’s DiContino, told the director that they have some sort of evidence.”

“What evidence?”

Garrity looked at the printout of Merriweather’s notes. “It doesn’t say. His scribbles don’t always make sense.”

“Fuck.”

“I figured with what’s going on that you’d want to know this fast.” Garrity listened for some kind of validation, but there was none. This man, these people, were his rainbow that led to the pot of gold. He had to do them right. But… “Is this true? I mean, that guy a while-back wasn’t just making it up?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Yeah. Okay. But, am I in any danger? I mean, could this lead to me?”

“Not if you keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“Don’t ever do this again. Never. Do you understand? You follow procedures from now on.”

“Okay.”

Garrity hung up as the line clicked off. A hand came up to his face. It was wet with perspiration, and it was trembling. His contact didn’t sound very sure of the situation, or of his semi-guarantee that this wouldn’t lead to him. To him. My God. That was a thought, a possibility, that Sam Garrity could not comprehend. Discovery. Prison. Prison.

He looked down at the phone and then to the sheets of printout in his hand. This was no fucking game anymore. It wasn’t fun. A missile? A nuclear missile? This was way beyond what he had envisioned.

“What have I done?”

“Got it!” Sanz said jubilantly. “The son of a bitch used his home phone.”

“Where?” Testra pressed.

“Area code two-oh-two. Washington Metro.” Sanz picked up the phone without prompting.

“Run it down,” Testra directed his partner. “Christ! Talk about self-incrimination! ‘Off the director’s desk’ and ‘some guy in the White House.’ Man, this guy is stone-cold gone.”

The phone to the Miami office was still ringing. Sanz knew they needed a trace fast. “We gotta get a warrant before that guy gets too spooked.”

“He sounded pretty far gone already.” Testra thought back to the conversation. “What do you suppose that stuff about a missile was?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Sanz said, as his call was picked up on the other end. “Yeah, this is Freddy. I need a name-number search pronto.”

Anthony Merriweather drank slowly from the Styrofoam cup. He forced himself not to cringe each time it touched his lips. “President Alvarez, I believe your priorities are quite well-thought-out. Your main distractions, as you say, will most definitely be the loyalists who remain after the defeat.”

“Several dozen processing camps will do nicely,” José-Ramon Alvarez stated. “Your Marines from Guantanamo can have them constructed very quickly.”

“Yes. Yes, you are right.” Merriweather put his half-full cup down on the nondescript end table. They hadn’t been able to provide accommodations with any higher state of acceptability for a future world leader. But, as with many things, it would do. Very soon it would not have to.

“It is very nice of you to wait with us, Señor Merriweather,” Alvarez said hollowly. His guest would not see that. He could not. That such a brainless academic-turned-politician could be chosen to run the CIA was almost beyond belief. But Alvarez could not look a gift horse in the mouth. Least of all this dimwitted old stallion.

Merriweather dipped his head a bit. “It is my pleasure to see you off, Mr. President.”

Your pleasure, indeed. Soon the fool would rue the day he ever came to be associated with them, Alvarez knew. But by then it would be too late to extract himself from the careful web they had spun. The idiot was theirs, literally under their thumb, and he didn’t even know it yet. That pleasure of disclosure would come in due time.

“Mr. President,” Gonzalo Parra said softly as he leaned toward Alvarez from behind. “There is a call you should take.”

Alvarez looked up over his shoulder. “Can you not handle it?”

“You should take it, sir.” Parra’s tone was firm and convincing. It also triggered an alarm in Alvarez.

“Very well. Señor Merriweather, your pardon please.”

“Yes.”

Alvarez lifted his girth from the chair and followed his closest aide into the adjoining room. “What is it?”

Parra ignored the annoyed tone and handed his leader the cell phone. “It is Avaro. There is trouble.”

José-Ramon put the small black phone to his ear. “Avaro.”

“Yes,” the contact replied in Spanish. It was the agreed-upon language of their conversations.

He recognized the distress in the voice. “What is the problem?”

“The missile. They know about the missile!”

Alvarez jerked his head toward Parra. He could see that his aide already knew. “Who knows?”

“The CIA. The White House. Our agent got the information from the director’s notes last night. They have some sort of proof that the missile is there.”

“But how? The fool is here with me, right now, and he is calm. He would not be here if it were so.”

“I don’t know why, but our agent was certain.”

“This cannot be. Could they have found the tape?”

“They must have. How else would they know?”

Dammit! “If it is so, then why is the director here?” He looked to Parra as he spoke. “Why?”

“A trap?” Avaro suggested.

“Or he still does not believe it,” Parra suggested. “As before.”

Alvarez nodded slowly at his aide’s thought. That was it. The fool was still blind to it, even with his government telling him otherwise! “It is not a trap. They have no way to know that we know of the missile. There is no connection to us.”

“Except for Tomás and Jorge. They know too much.”

“But you took care of them, Avaro, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then we have nothing to worry of,” Alvarez said confidently.

“But the missile,” Avaro said. “It will not be ours.”

Alvarez chuckled. “It most certainly will. All they have is a tape. It does not tell them where to find the missile. We do not even know, Avaro, but once we are in power, we will locate it. The Americans will only be able to scratch their heads and wonder. It will be our country, Avaro, and our missile.”

“Yes. I suppose it will be.”

“Do not suppose,” Alvarez said. “Believe.”

“I will.”

“Besides, it cannot be true,” Alvarez said jokingly. “Our friend the director says there is no missile, so there must not be. Not for a while, at least. If there was, it would make him look bad. We would not want him to lose his job. He does such a great service. A very valuable service.”

Avaro allowed a very infrequent laugh. “Yes, he does, Father.”

Alvarez switched off the phone and folded it shut. “That damned interpreter!”

Parra took the cell phone from his leader and laid it on the table. “Your words to Avaro were true. It is too late for anything to stop us.”

“He is my son, Gonzalo. I must ease his fears. But to have the Americans looking…”

“As you said, they will not find it. When the country is ours, they cannot just snoop around without our permission. Of course they will want to, but want and will are two very different things.” Parra knew his words were having the desired effect. Even men of power needed reassurance in times of great events. “We will have a country. We will have the weapon with which to guarantee our sovereignty. We will have the director right where we want him. And from all those things we will amass great wealth.”

Alvarez hoped it would be so. Hoped it would be as they planned. “Soothe me, Gonzalo.”

Parra smiled with just his eyes. “In six months we will have the economy of our country moving in the right direction. In twelve months enough commerce will have returned that the moneys flowing in and out of our banks will be sufficient that the tracing of funds will be impossible…without the government’s assistance, of course.”

“You will make a fine minister of finance, Gonzalo.”

“Si, Mr. President. And I will see to our laundry business as if it were my child.” It was, actually. Parra had first suggested the lucrative use of the island’s financial institutions. There would be plenty of customers on the international market. Dirty money was a commodity of almost limitless supply among the world’s less savory power players. Someone had to “clean” it, and that someone was rightly due a very large commission for services rendered. “In eighteen months we will be generating more than one hundred million dollars a month. In three years that will more than triple. In five years…”

“Your words are like the touch of a fine, fine masseuse, Gonzalo.”

Parra nodded. His session was not finished. “By then we will no longer need the services of our friend in there. The money generated by our ‘sales’ division will be meaningless by then, and so will his protection. That we will be able to purchase. No one, I guarantee you, no one, will be able to refuse the sums we can offer. What we want will be ours.”

“He doesn’t even know he is working for us yet, and already we have signed his pink slip,” Alvarez joked. He thought of the amount earned from the director’s busy pen. It was peanuts compared to what lay ahead. Peanuts. “I love money, Gonzalo. I truly do.”

“Money is power, Mr. President.”

Alvarez nodded. There was much power to be had. In many forms.

“Bob, you know it’s good,” Chick Hill said as his editor ran through the story a second time.

“Good, sure, but is it true?”

“Old Limp Dick does not call the White House for nothing,” Hill reminded his boss. “Party line or not, they don’t like him, and he don’t like them.”

Bob Christopher, national editor for the Post, had no argument with that. Congressman Richard Vorhees had surprised many by not always falling in line with the President and his secretary of defense. Some said he was promoting his own agenda. The ones who didn’t say it simply agreed with those who did. “All right, morning edition.”

“Morning!” Chick’s hands went to his hips in a futile display of disagreement. Christopher’s look told him that. “All right.”

“Get it to copyediting.”

Hill took the hard copy and walked it down one floor to the copyeditor for the national pages. “Morning edition.”

The middle-aged man looked up. “Why didn’t you just transfer it?” All the Post’s computers were networked. It was standard to “send” a story to copyediting by pressing a button, not by hand delivery.

“ ‘Cause I needed the walk,” Chick answered sarcastically, reaching for his cigarettes as he walked away.

“Asshole,” the copyeditor said openly. Dealing with these prima donna “journalists” was his least favorite part of his job. At one time he had gotten some satisfaction in using them and the information they dug up to increase his net worth, but that part of his “night job” had slacked off in the recent past. His employers no longer craved the written word as they once had as if it were gold. Now he was much more often used simply as a message boy, the link somewhere in the middle of a chain whose other end he knew nothing about. And he’d continued to be blissfully ignorant as long as the end he did know of continued to pay him handsomely.

Back to the day job. Reading and rewriting, fixing the mistakes that these “highly educated journalists” made with comical regularity. Chimps at the National Zoo could do better.

Hold on. He read over the first part of the story again. Then the rest. “Well, isn’t this interesting.” He knew from experience that he would not be the only person to see it as such.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number from memory that he had so many times before. Doing so was not even that unusual. Part of his job included checking facts, and one of the stories in his basket was about the new economic-treaty provisions that the republics of the former Soviet Union had just agreed to. Where else would he get the confirmations he needed?

The call was answered at 1125 Sixteenth Street NW and forwarded to the third secretary for consular affairs. Five minutes later, after a trip to the photocopy machine, the copyeditor left on his regular lunch break. A car departed the Russian embassy at the same time.